


unbound

by Adadzio



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: And angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut, the holy trinity of this pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: Stannis and Melisandre spend a day together after the Battle for Winterfell.





	unbound

**i.**

Dawn was approaching, reaching across the North's snowy expanse with pale blue fingers. _Chasing away the evils of the Great Other._ Joy mingled with relief in her breast, stoking the smoldering embers of her ruby to a pleasant warmth at the hollow of her throat. Melisandre stretched pale arms above her head and began to slip silently from the bed. Before she could reach the edge, an arm caught her around the middle, trapping her in place.

She startled, but a hand was already sliding down to her thighs, rucking up her shift. “The nightfires,” Melisandre protested.

If the king heard her, he did not acknowledge it, and she wondered if he was half-asleep or simply impatient. Before long she was flipped beneath him — for that was the natural way they fit together, though they were no longer at Castle Black where Stannis took up most of her little bed — and then he was lurching his hips against hers and she could only grasp at his arms, hands that were framing her body, locking her in place.

He kissed her greedily, first her lips and the rosy tips of her breasts, and then he shoved her thighs up and nuzzled the copper curls between her thighs, his beard stinging sweetly against the previous night's bruises. Her body was sore from his attentions but he was bent on having her again, desperate to envelop her and be enveloped after so many moons of hunger and cold. What could she do? She would not deny him because of some aches in her body. Melisandre twined her fingers with his and writhed as he feasted between her legs.  


Abruptly he sat up, grasping his cock and fitting himself to the sweet entrance between her thighs. Melisandre bit her lip to keep from crying out as he found his target within her. Instinctively, she wrapped her ivory legs around the king's hips, allowing him further access to her divine body. Ned Stark's bed groaned and hit the wall in an erratic beat. "My king," she gasped, "_Stannis_." A delicious pain built rapidly within her and swelled, until like a dam it broke, and the intensity of it all brought forth tears from her red eyes, the likes of which he'd not seen before. 

A hand held fast to her hip, anchoring her down onto the large bed as he persisted in his assault of her body. The bedchamber filled with the obscene sound of bodies joining, primal grunts of pleasure. Once her ecstasy had abated she realised he was very much awake, and studying her face as he took her. She wondered what he saw, what he judged of her eyes heavy with pleasure, red lips parted by feminine whimpers, wisps of red hair damp against her forehead. 

Soon he put his seed in her. She was gathered to his sinewy chest, and the coarse black hair there was slick with perspiration. "My Melisandre," he murmured.

It was already dawn. But she listened to the steady beat of his heart, and with it flaming in her mind's eye, slept for the first time in months.

**ii.**

The king watched as she washed between her legs with a rag, cheeks flushed rosy, her full, milky breasts swelling as she tried to catch her breath. He felt a familiar white-hot desire prickling his lower belly, depraved and infuriating. _Accursed gods_, he thought, was it normal to crave a woman so much, to never tire of her? Stannis knew that the priestess had bewitched him years ago, dosed him with some lust potion or dusted her soft thighs with an enchanting powder, but now the ache had been multiplied by months of separation. Already he missed being inside her, having her moan his name, feeling her nails along his back.

Yet it was mid-morning. _Shameful, pitiful pleasure._ He would not deign to call her back to bed. She was wrapping herself in her customary red silks, growing more excited with each layer._ Like a child_, he thought with disdain and rose to dress himself, _a fool eager to swoon over her god_. Embarrassment crept up his neck to see her approach the door with no care given to her tangled hair, the obvious dishevelment of their coupling.

There had been once when his little Devan had approached him, jug of water trembling in his hands, and inquired what he should do if he heard ill speech of the Lady Melisandre. The boy was ardently loyal to her and wished to be a gallant squire. Stannis could see that, but sent him away with a curt word about stupid people and their gossip.

He knew what Winterfell said about her and she heard the whisperings as well. How she dressed in all reds, how her words were heavy with the accent of the Jade Sea, how strange she was to wear her hair loose, uncovered. _Like a virgin_, the maids said.

_Why shouldn’t she? She is a priestess._

_Aye, she must oft be on her knees in prayer, for daily I hear the king's floorboards creak._

He did not care about the vapid giggles of hyenas, but was rankled by her carelessness all the same. "Melisandre," he snapped and waved her back over, preventing her escape. Without prelude he questioned her about the status of her hair, and she had the good sense to ask if it displeased him.

He frowned at that. “A virtuous woman should not wear her hair thus. Is that the custom in Asshai?”

Melisandre blinked as he walked around her in inspection. “The length, my king?”

“No,” he ground his teeth. “Wearing it…down, like that.”

There was a longer pause, and he felt proud that he had caused her to hesitate. “It is not,” she began. “I only— ”

“Wish to draw attention to yourself?”

Melisandre was careful to keep her face pleasant. _Ever the instrument,_ he thought. “No, Your Grace. I simply do not have ladies to arrange my hair.”

That rendered him bewildered. “It is only hair,” he exclaimed. His own had thinned and strayed away entirely in the last years, but he couldn’t be concerned with beauty. Stewards for dressing, yes, but hair was simple enough.

“That may be so, but one cannot braid the back of their head.” Melisandre’s eyes seemed to burn a little harder, as if rekindled.

He snorted at that. “If that be all, the queen will find a lady to do your hair.”

“I thank Your Grace, but no.”

“No?”

“Sire, what gentle woman would wait upon…someone of my birth?”

“A maid, then.” She shook her head, and hair fell freely into her eyes. “As you will. Stubborn woman.”

“I am not made for such luxuries.”

Stannis tapped the ruby at her throat. “The smallfolk would call that a luxury,” he said wryly.

“That was a— “

“Play the pious girl if you must, but you clearly covet pretty things, and sizeable ones at that. Though you wear no other jewels on your person, as Renly did, so I judge you not so vain.”

“It was a gift.”

Stannis nearly tripped over his own boots. He had not been expecting that. Gratitude for deeming her within the acceptable limits of ostentatiousness, perhaps, or confirmation that he had deduced her true…but not that. A wave of discomfort settled over him, settling deep in his stomach to gnaw at him. “From who?” he demanded to know.

Melisandre pushed a curtain of coppery hair behind her ear. “From the priests, Sire, as a wedding gift.”

For nearly a minute there was only the sound of the brazier, its flames crackling as if in soft laughter. _Fool,_ he thought, _you utter fool_. She was no priestess but a woman wed, clearly having abandoned her unhappy marriage in search of a wealthy patron, and he had been taken in by the act, taken in by her warm skin and her soft thighs, condemning himself to not one count of adultery but two. _Utter fool!_

“Who,” he managed to grit from clenched teeth, “is your _husband?”_

She glanced back at him over her pretty shoulder, looking mildly amused. “R’hllor, Sire.”

_Her damned R’hllor?_ Stannis would not admit how much a relief that was. He threw a length of silk over her head and ground his teeth, seething. Melisandre did not even flinch. “Will your god not smite me for lying with his wife?” His words were blunt, sharp, but Melisandre withstood his interrogation with admirable patience.

“He has many wives to serve him, and blesses my union with Azor Ahai.”

Stannis raked a hand down his face, mortified that he’d asked. He fell down heavily into a chair. “You think yourself a married woman, then.”

A little spark flashed through her eyes. “I _am_ married, Sire.”

The king smiled sardonically. “Are you newlywed still?”

“Not so newly,” she admitted. “I was offered to R’hllor at nine.”

The amusement vanished. “Nine?” he repeated. His Shireen was older, he thought, and still far too young to be given as a gift to any man…or god.

“They gave me this ruby on my wedding night,” she touched two delicate fingers to the gem, speaking as if lost in her memories. He burned in discomfort at the thought. “It was too small for me to wear, but I guarded it close until I could fashion it as I desired.”

He was still thinking of a girl so young being shepherded to an altar in her bridal cloak. “A spiritual union.”

“Sire?”

“Yours is merely a…spiritual marriage, of course.”

Melisandre tilted her head. “Greater than that, Sire. We— ”

“Enough of this,” he barked, standing abruptly. _I have wasted half a morning with a woman who wears her hair unbound. _He shouted at Devan to bring her cloak, and she tried to hide her smile.

“Are we to walk the grounds?”

Stannis assisted her into her satin cloak, noting that it was too thin to be of any real protection. Once covered, his big hands settled on her shoulders. “Do not run off,” he instructed. He pointed a finger in her face to emphasise the point.

“Sire, I would not.” Melisandre was already inching out the door, her new veil crooked.

“The moment Jon Snow’s damned beast comes out, you will run off to it and dishevel yourself in the snow, like a wanton child.”

“He is a valuable creature.”

“I am a king,” he shouted back. 

**iii.**

Tycho had perhaps spent too long with the king, Melisandre mused, for like the king he was tall and gaunt. _Though Stannis was taller yet, and possessed so little fat on his figure that his hips left bruises on her thighs. _And Stannis did not dress nearly so luxuriously as this banker did. Even after his trials in the bitter North, Tycho looked resplendent in robes of purple and ermine, a high stiff collar framing the long rope of his beard and a narrow face.

“I had thought you back to Braavos,” Stannis said flatly. 

“Alas, Your Grace…the Wall, as you've heard, was in a chaotic state. Ser Justin thought it best to return Jeyne and I to Winterfell.”

"The lord commander's sister."

"Alas…" 

Stannis grunted. "So I heard, yet another deception. Will it never cease?" Then, to Melisandre, "Were it not better to leave Jon dead in the snow?"

"Surely not, Sire." 

Seeing his opportunity, Tycho swept into a flourish of a bow, despite the staggering height of his felt hat. “Ah, Lady Melisandre, tales of your great beauty cannot compare to the divine vision before me! What fairness of visage. How your god has smiled upon you!”

She smiled at his courtesy, impressed by the faintness of his accent. It was far less noticeable than hers. "What he has done for I, a servant most undeserving, he would do for all."

The banker motioned for his servant to open a little wooden box. “For you, lady.”

“You are gracious, but I cannot accept.”

“If not on my behalf, then perhaps as a gift from His Grace?”

Melisandre crept closer to examine the box, not daring to look at the king. He would find such a suggestion presumptuous, would think such a thing frivolous. _And yet what beauty! _It was a bronze hair pin, wrought delicately from base to tip. Engraved on the widest end was a glimmering ruby heart, its edges etched with gold flames.

“My Melisandre would be pleased by it,” the king admitted, startling her. “She prefers to wear her hair uncovered.”

A murmured word between Tycho’s servants and the king’s, and the little box was placed in her hands. When the banker had dismissed himself to converse with other courtiers, Stannis wrenched the silk off her head. Melisandre was surprised when he slid the new pin into her tresses, somewhat inexpertly. “Is my lady pleased?” 

She felt she had done something wrong, somehow. “I will wear the veil, if you prefer it.” 

“I tire of this charade of humility."

His drollness relieved her. Melisandre tucked the veil into her sleeve, smiling at him from beneath her lashes. "Careful, my king. One might think you prefer me brazen." 

"Of course not," he scowled. "Now let us return to the castle, we have wasted time enough with leisure."

She slid arms around his narrow waist and buried her nose into his broad chest. "Please, an hour more? The day is young and very fair."

He grunted, but not in dissent.

**iv.**

They were taking their mid-day meal when a lone trumpet sounded at the gate. Melisandre politely pretended not to hear his barrage of curses. It was the news he'd been dreading; the queen was arriving tomorrow from Castle Black, and truth be told, he would have preferred if she'd gotten lost.

After his victory Melisandre had ridden day and night to reach him, Devan and a crippled guard struggling at her heels. The rest of her protection had fled following the mutiny of Castle Black, and for that he'd have gelded any who weren't already lacking a cock. He'd given her a severe reprimand for riding so recklessly, without a summons, without a second thought. She seemed not to hear his cruel words, only watched him with tears shining in her eyes — as if in disbelief that he stood before her, a man living and breathing. Eventually he'd been weakened by the heaving, pale swell of her chest, and claimed her lips with a regrettable fury. 

Selyse would get no such welcome tomorrow. He would receive her and they would exchange the terse courtesies, and he would not have the heart to push his daughter's embraces away. They would set about holding a celebratory feast.

It would feel more like a funeral. The music would be dreadful, droning on as if in a dirge, and Selyse's knights would be loud in their conversations, far too eager to imbibe of ale. Melisandre would stand by the brazier alone, her own eyes low and hooded with wine. He would watch her more openly than he ever had before, prompting not a few whispers. But Melisandre would not once look back at him.

Against his better judgment he would send for her that night. His steward would return, so nervous he was trembling, absent the fruit of his quest. Stannis would grind his teeth and stalk to window, furious at the priestess's honourable refusal. "Summon the queen then," he would bark. 

In truth it would pain him to shatter Selyse's hopeful excitement. He would join her in bed without a word, without a gentle touch, and do his dreadful duty. She did not deserve such cruelty. And he did not deserve happiness. Even so, he dreamed that his wife would say, "I will command Melisandre to you," and so depart.

**v.**

Under the dark cover of night, the king paced before a drawn bath. It was a queer sight. "Come," he ushered her inside. He regarded her in her red cloak. "You have not yet bathed."

Melisandre paused, taken aback. "No, Sire. Devan commanded I attend you."

He didn't seem to be listening, instead walking around her to tug her cloak off. She was shocked when he knelt, his big hands clutching her lower back, face pressed to the softness of her belly. "I shall wash your hair. Will you allow me?"

"I— " Again, Melisandre did not know how to respond. "You may do with me as you desire, Sire."

"I know that," he kissed her clothed hip, and then her thigh. "And yet I am the one grovelling, a pitiful sight to be sure."

A soft white hand came to rest on his brow. "I will bring you back to strength. You are my king, my warrior. Let me heal you. R'hllor— "

"Do be quiet, woman." Satisfied with her silence, he stood. "Disrobe."

She removed her gown, then tried speaking again. "The Lord will— "

"Get into my damned bath." 

She stepped in before she could anger him further, and he followed in behind her. Melisandre sat puzzled while he removed her gilded hair pin and pressed it into her palm. Then he began washing her hair, his normally rough fingers working awkwardly in an attempt to be gentle, as if her tresses were made of real copper. She doubted he had ever washed a woman's hair before. "Eddard Stark's lady wife had red hair too."

"I remember," Melisandre said. 

"You are lady of this castle after her, for a night more at least."

"Please do not say such things."

"I will say what I want," he grumbled. A moment passed as she watched the fire. "Do you know what they said about you, on the march?"

"Who, Sire?"

As usual, he was not listening. "They called you my queen. Certainly, I have two, but they called you mine only queen. A great pity it's not true." He gathered her now-fragrant hair behind her head, reclaimed her discarded hair pin, and secured the tangle with great effort. Melisandre successfully hid a pained wince. "I will send for my lady wife tomorrow," he said, as if he were doing business with a merchant. "I will do my duty, though gods know I might sooner have put a child in you." Melisandre did not respond. He did not seem to mind. "Do you wish to lie with me?"

Melisandre steadied her patience with a breath. "I wait upon your pleasure, Sire." 

"How you talk," he complained. "Would you tell me the truth if you wished to leave? No, I think not, and you should know I did not mean tonight. How foolish you are, Melisandre, to talk in flatteries like the rest of them."

Her annoyance finally boiled over. "What is it that Your Grace wishes to know, then? If I enjoy lying with you?"

"If you enjoy being my whore."

Melisandre turned to look into his brooding blue eyes, realising he was in a more delicate mood than she'd thought. "Cease this," she said, softly. "You are weary from your march and injured from battle, and unguarded to the darkness in your mind. I will not stand by and watch you succumb to it. If you wish to throw cruel words at me, to challenge me, do so now, but then no more."

He gripped the edges of his bath, teeth clenched to shattering. "I said it already and you did not deny it. You are false and sluttish."

Melisandre planted her hands on his chest and met his gaze squarely. "And a queen, it would seem." When he did not reply, small fingers ghosted down his stomach to grasp his manhood, all traces of deference gone. 

"Yes," he smiled after a moment, and for once it was genuine. "That too."


End file.
